


ungodly hour

by celosiaa



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Fainting, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Mugging, Trans Martin Blackwood, Whump, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa
Summary: Jon can't take his mind off of Martin, can't stop himself from Seeing--and for once, perhaps he will be grateful.Martin is mugged, and Jon rushes to save him.  But will he accept Jon's help?(from a prompt on my tumblr)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 32
Kudos: 189





	ungodly hour

**Author's Note:**

> CW: injury, mugging, blood, fainting
> 
> _Don't talk , don't say a thing  
>  'Cause your eyes they tell me more than your words  
> Don't go, don't leave me now  
> Cause they say the best way out is through  
> -Ungodly Hour, The Fray_
> 
> (Jon's thoughts are formatted in italics. The Eye speaks in glitched text.)

Jon pulls the threadbare blanket from where he’s folded it in the corner of his office, spreading it over the cot which has become his new bed. It’s a rare day that he leaves the archives anymore, not even to eat—and he’s not sure how much he really needs to do that, anyway. It doesn’t feel like much. In fact, it feels like nothing at all.

It’s all just hollow, now.

Outside the office door, he hears the padding of stocking feet, and knows that it’s Basira. She too has been staying in the archives more often than not, finding herself feeling more and more endangered each time she leaves this musty, miserable place. Though she does not say a word about it, Jon knows she’s angry with him— _Knows_ it, really—and so avoids crossing her path wherever possible. She needs the space, and Jon is willing to give it to her.

It doesn’t mean it isn’t hard. Every time she passes by his door, which he keeps almost eternally closed now, the Eye pulls at him—teasing at his paranoia, promising him such a very tasty morsel, just one little bite and she’ll never have to know. He shoves down the thought violently each time, unwilling to invade the privacy of her thoughts, especially as she now seems to be his only friend.

_If I can even call her that._

He tries not to think about it for as long as he can avoid it. The hurt runs too deep, too fragile to look at for long—the way he can’t even remember Sasha, Tim’s unforgiveness, Daisy’s vanishing, and now…now even Martin won’t speak to him.

_Stop it stop it stop it stop it_

Groaning softly in frustration, Jon buries his face in his hands, trying to focus on anything other than the near constant litany of _MartinMartinMartin_ that he tries so very hard to keep from his mind. The force of his thoughts beats against his skull agonizingly, tempting him into _Knowing_ how he is, where he is, what he’s doing with such incredible strength that he can hardly resist.

Aͤrͩ̽e̬͛̚ ͕̞ͭ̔y͈̎̐̑̆o͉̤̲ͬ͋ͩụ̼͕̺͎͂̈́ ̜̫̮ͪͨ̓ͫs̞̘̩͔͍̹̍͂u̝͍͑̽͊̐̿̃ȓ̯͖̈ͬͤ̔ͮͅe͓̳̳̱̩͙̋̃̂ ͎̱̼̠͎̟̺̥́ͧh̳̮̹͖̻̜̰͛͐̇e͇̲̪̽ͥ̓ͦ͑̒ͤ'̣̺̗̀̅̿̾̐̑̚s̩͉̱̻ͨͮ̃̓̓̚ ̣͔̦̈́͂ͦ̀̿̚ͅn̳̘͈̞̻̼̒̉̃ͦǒ̩̬̗̗͙̰ͣ͑t̗͔ͦ͒̔̓̊̃ͭ ̳̹͓͋̅ͩͦ͆̈i̻̳̲̰̜̾ͤͅn͈͍̣͍͓͋̓ ̻̥̉̋͛̔ͯd̩̰̜̝͕͆a̩͚̟ͭͅn̜͈̉ͬg̬ͬ̊̄e͖̫͍r͕̖?̈́

_He’s fine, and he doesn’t need me. He’s fine._

_O_ _̰_ _h_ _͒ͬ_ _,_ _ͥͣ̌_ _̫̈̍ͅ_ _i_ _͚ͪ̈_ _́_ _̋_ _s_ _̫͚͖ͫͥ_ _̣_ _̖͕̿͐_ _t_ _̼̱̯̿͛_ _h_ _̲̟͉̿ͣ_ _a_ _̼_ _̣_ _ͮ̐_ _t_ _͇ͫ̅ͩ_ _ͯͨ̚_ _s_ _͕̾_ _o_ _͛_ _̃?_ _̖_

 _Y_ _̅_ _o_ _͎̠_ _ũ_ _̚̚_ _͎̻ͯ̈_ _́o_ _͇̙̭̝ͧ_ _u_ _͎̰ͨ̒͗͆_ _g_ _̖͌͋̇̆̏_ _ĥ_ _̬̺̦̍̇ͫ_ _t_ _̻̝̩̘ͨ͌̚_ _̤̱̫̂ͪͨͨͣ_ _t_ _̝̩̪ͯͥͮ͗̚_ _o_ _͍̲̞̱̓̍̍ͧ_ _̜͚͒̓͐ͩͯ͑_ _h_ _͓̞̥̫̓ͨ͛͂_ _a_ _͔̺̰͌̊̊͛_ _̀v_ _̟̫̳̥ͤ͊͋_ _e_ _͉͙̠͈̙̎̚_ _̄̎̾̓̔ͅ_ _a_ _̩̥ͤ̾_ _̀_ _̇_ _̣_ _͈̰ͩͅ_ _l_ _̺͈_ _̀_ _͆_ _ȯ͉̚_ _ó_ _̜͛_ _k_ _̐̄_ _._ _̞_

_I won’t I won’t I won’t_

His vision winks out in a blinding flash.

\---

Fading slowly back in shades of grey, sight pulsing at the edges in time with his heart, his eyes land upon Martin—walking briskly down an empty London street, head bowed against the falling snow. Dim light from the lampposts illuminates his pale and drawn face, set in stark contrast with the deep bruises forming crescent moons beneath his eyes, darker than Jon has ever seen on him. If he didn’t _Know_ better, he would think Martin were ill enough to be in bed. 

Seething rage at the Lonely and at Lukas builds like static behind his skull.

_God, look what it’s done to him._

Sick at heart, Jon tries to pull himself out of the vision, not wanting to risk Martin somehow noticing his presence, when someone stops him on the sidewalk to ask directions.

And three others creep up from the alleyway behind them.

_Shit shit shit_

Jon cries out a warning, stumbling forward toward him, voice falling soundlessly into the void of this space as he watches the scene unfold before him with horror. The three figures behind Martin jump him at once, their numbers easily overpowering his great height and pulling him into the alley from whence they came, his shouts of fear and pain echoing through Jon’s entire body.

_Help him help him help him—_

Jon desperately claws at the vision, at the _Knowing_ , anything to break him out of it so he can _run run run run—_

_\---_

He falls onto the floor from the cot, tile cold and harsh against his bare legs. Despite the pain of landing, his heart still pounds frantically in his ears, drawing him out the door as quick as he can scramble up—merely slipping on his loafers and bolting out into the snow in shorts and a thin hoodie. Without his brace, his knee screams at him to stop, but he can barely register it—so focused is he on reaching Martin, hoping against hope that his vision had been some sort of premonition rather than reality.

_Please please please please_

The sound of a commotion rises in volume as he approaches the street from the vision. Rounding the corner into the alleyway, his eyes fall upon the four figures he had previously seen, bending over a figure they’d knocked to the ground—

Static bursts from Jon’s mind, and he can feel the Eye opening above him, within him, around him.

G̩̼̉ọ̅ͧ,ͥ he demands simply, voice growling and deep, much deeper than could ever be his own.

At once, the figures drop the man they’d been holding by the collar, backing away from whatever monstrous form Jon had managed to take in absolute terror.

G̝̎ͧ͂Ő̺͗ͭ!ͣ

They begin to run, feet slipping on the ice-laden cobblestones, around the corner and out of sight. Feeling the Eye beginning to close, Jon senses himself lowering back to the ground, from where he had not realized he’d been hovering.

_God, what must I look like right now?_

He does not spend much effort trying to answer this question, as a low moan from the figure in front of him draws him back to the present.

_Oh god, Martin._

Dashing over at once, Jon kneels in front of him, eyes sweeping quickly over his body—face covered in blood from where his nose is streaming, a nasty laceration at his hairline, clothes mussed and dirtied from where he’d likely taken some hits. His head rolls to one side on the cobblestones, brows pinched closely together as he moans in half-consciousness.

“Martin? Hey, Martin, can you hear me?” Jon asks desperately, trying to keep as calm as possible.

Even now, the sight of so much blood makes him shaky, especially blood that is not his own. He takes great care not to dizzily tip over when pulling off his hoodie, balling it up to press against the nasty cut on Martin’s forehead.

 _Christ, Jon, keep it together,_ he begs silently, as blood continues to pound in his ears, vision swimming sickeningly.

“J’n?”

Jon could nearly cry with relief at the sound, slurred and thick as it may be.

“Hey, there you are. Are you with me?’ he asks, the shakiness having crept into his voice as well.

“Wh’ are—” he pauses, coughing briefly and clutching at his ribs in response. “What are you doing here?”

“I—I came to help you. Saw it happening. A-accidentally.”

At this, Martin opens his eyes, offering Jon as contemptuous a half-lidded glare as he can manage in this state. Opening his mouth to reply, he gets no further than an inhale before the coughing resumes, choking on the nosebleed that must have spilled down the back of his throat.

“Oh Christ, here—”

As well as he can, Jon guides Martin up to sitting, leaning him back against the dingy wall of the alleyway as Martin bends double with damp coughing, blood spilling from between his lips. For his part, Jon feels as though he could faint at the sight, and he begins to see stars floating across his vision—but tries to focus his efforts on keeping pressure on the head wound.

“S’rry,” Martin mutters, eyes drifting closed as he leans a bit into Jon’s touch. 

“No no—you’ve got to stay awake, Martin,” Jon says, voice thin enough to break.

“M’awake,” he replies as Jon pulls the sleeve of his hoodie from where he’s balled it up against Martin’s head, sweeping it down across his still-bleeding nose and split lip.

“Can you—can you tell me you name?” he asks, not liking the way Martin’s head still lolls against his hands.

He opens his eyes a bit at this, squinting at Jon in confusion.

“But you know…oh. Martin Blackwood,” he replies dutifully, having figured out what Jon is trying to do.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Erm…an alleyway, it seems?”

“Can you tell me what day it is?”

Martin falls silent at this, eyes drifting back closed for a moment as he considers.

“I...I’ve sort of lost track,” he whispers, eyes remaining closed.

_Not good._

Now that Jon has asked these questions, however, he does not know what to do now that Martin cannot answer one of them.

“A-alright. That—that’s alright, just give it a moment,” he soothes shakily, arguing with himself over whether to dial 999.

Martin suddenly tenses under his hands, eyes snapping open in panic.

“Oh god, you shouldn’t be here,” he whispers intensely, eyes shifting quickly to the left and right as he grabs Jon’s wrist, pulling the cloth from where it’s pressed his head.

Jon sputters for a moment, nearly losing his balance at the sudden motion.

“Wh—Martin, you—”

“No, you can’t—”

Martin sits forward at once, shifting his weight onto his feet as he attempts to stand.

“You can’t be here with me, I—"

His already ashen face goes stark white at the movement, eyes rolling back as he hits the ground again, the back of his head smacking against the brick of the building behind him.

“ _Christ!_ Martin!” Jon yelps, cupping a hand behind his head to feel for blood, the other gripping his upper arm.

“M’sorry,” Martin mutters again, eyes fluttering open after a moment, wincing as Jon’s fingers brush over a sore spot where his head had hit.

“Just—just lie back,” Jon soothes anxiously, reaching for his phone. “I’m going to call Basira.”

“No! No—please, Jon, I’ll be alright,” Martin begs, reaching out to grab Jon’s phone from him—giving a sharp, pained inhale as he goes—if possible—paler, clutching at his ribs in agony.

_Oh god oh god oh god_

“Martin? Where did they hit?” Jon asks, phone clattering to the pavement when Martin’s breaths begin to pick up speed.

He does not reply, merely squeezing his eyes shut, tears beginning to leak out at the corners as he does so.

“Oh god. Martin?” Jon calls softly, fighting back against his panic, voice ticking upwards with effort. “Can you tell me where?”

Martin lets out a shuddering little breath, not opening his eyes as he replies.

“Face. Ribs. Stomach,” he chokes, draping one hand over his eyes, shoulders shaking with barely-repressed sobs.

_Oh, Martin._

Jon feels his own tears creeping up his throat, swallowing them down in an effort to stay calm, to stay focused, to do _something_ to mend the heart-shattering sight in front of him.

“My god. God, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, reaching out a hand to hover dangerously over Martin’s, before thinking better of it and pulling back.

_Stop it. Focus._

“Can I take I look?” he asks as gently as possible, wishing more than anything that Martin would just open his eyes, would just _look at him—_

When he does, it’s with such wariness that Jon wants to vomit. He is not a stranger to this look—far from it, in fact—but to receive it from Martin’s eternally kind hazel eyes…that’s something Jon never wishes to see again. Despite his clear apprehension, Martin does reach a hand down to lift his jumper, revealing a bruising abdomen just up to the edge of his binder.

_His binder._

“Martin, we should get your binder off those ribs—” Jon breaths out in a rush, hands instinctively reaching forward to touch—

“ _Don’t!_ Please don’t, Jon, just—just leave it, please.”

In a last-ditch effort to stop him, Martin grabs at Jon’s hand, keeping a shaking grip on it until fresh rivulets of tears begin to spill down his cheeks.

“Alright, alright—I-I’m sorry, I won’t…I won’t touch it,” Jon soothes quietly, unable to resist offering some gesture of comfort—and rests a hand on Martin’s forearm.

To his surprise, Martin does not pull away.

“I-I’ve got to call Basira, I’m sorry. She’ll pick us up,” he mutters, guilt heavy in his tone as he reaches out for his phone, though Martin does not protest.

As he talks, he keeps his voice intentionally calm and low, running his hand up and down Martin’s forearm now, hoping that the repetitive motion will give him something gentle on which he can focus. To his relief, Martin’s breathing begins to gradually slow, though the tears still slip unbidden down his cheeks.

“She’s bringing her car around as quick as she can,” Jon murmurs, squeezing his arm gently.

At this, Martin shakes his head rapidly, squeezing his eyes shut yet again.

“Just leave me here, Jon,” he whispers in a broken voice, beginning to tremble.

All Jon’s breath leaves his lungs at these words, absolutely devastated that they could even be spoken aloud.

“Wh-what?”

“Just leave me. You shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t have looked,” Martin continues, voice a bit stronger, though his body still shakes.

Jon’s chest _aches._

“I—maybe you’re right. But I’m _not_ leaving you here, that’s absurd.”

“You don’t understand,” Martin snaps, though his angered expression drops almost immediately into something approaching guilt.

_You’re right. I don’t._

_And it breaks my heart._

Worrying at his bottom lip for a moment, Jon fights against the rising lump in his throat, choking everything back as he whispers.

“What happened, Martin?”

An echo of the first time he’d asked this question resounds through his mind.

> _“What happened, Martin?”_
> 
> _"You died.”_
> 
> _"I came back.”_
> 
> _“Yeah, and I’m not going to let it happen again.”_

He can hardly bear it—this silence, this loneliness, this complete agony of facing a world without Martin—

And does the only thing left to his power: taking his hand in his own.

“Have I done something to hurt you? Please—if I’ve done something, anything— _please_ tell me and I will try to make it right,” he begs, voice fading into a choked whisper against stinging tears.

_Please tell me._

_I don’t know how I can do this without you._

At last, their eyes meet in earnest, snow falling softly in both of their hair—but the warm hearth that is Martin’s gaze has gone out, swallowed up in swirling fog.

“I can’t,” he whispers, more tears slipping down his face as he removes his hand from Jon’s hold.

Jon’s heart is absolutely shattered.

“Can’t what?” he croaks, unable to keep the damp from his voice now.

“We can’t do this, Jon. You know we can’t.”

To that, Jon can find no words—no words to surmount this ever-deepening chasm between them. Bowing his head, he at last allows himself the relief of weeping, overwhelmed by the fog and the snow and the ice and the winter chill.

_I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand_

He trembles—whether from wearing shorts in the snow or from the hurt of it all, he’ll never know.

“You’ll freeze,” Martin mutters from somewhere far, far away.

“It’s fine.”

“No. No, it isn’t.”

_…what?_

Momentarily taken aback, Jon blinks in shock before dragging his gaze back up to meet Martin’s. The way he looks at him now…there’s something he’s trying to say, something desperate to be spoken aloud, something in the way his eyebrows are creased and his eyes are soft and wide and full of regret—

“ _Christ_ , Martin, are you alright?”

Basira’s exclamation jolts them both back into the present, causing them to jump in surprise.

“Fine, I’m fine,” Martin assures, as blood continues to cascade down his face.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, crossing her arms. “I’m driving you to the A&E. No arguments.”

“I don’t need—”

“ _I said no arguments,”_ she barks, shutting Martin up at once. “What were they even getting at by attacking you?”

“I’d just gone to the cash machine,” Martin mumbles, dropping his head in shame. “Didn’t think anyone was watching.”

“That’s rich,” she mutters, pointedly glaring at Jon, who sighs exasperatedly. “Help me get him up, then.”

Crouching down on either side of Martin, Basira and Jon loop his arms around their shoulders before dragging him to his feet—nearly pulled back down again when Martin’s dizziness threatens to get the better of him. He gasps with pain at each step, chest heaving shallowly against the stabbing pain of his ribs, until they finally get him settled in the back of the car. By the time he’s seated, his face has gone paler still, looking ready to tip over into unconsciousness at any moment. Jon starts to squeeze in next to him on the seat, trying to press the hoodie back over his laceration, before—

“NO, you can’t.”

Martin half-shouts at him, pulling his hand down yet again and glaring frustratedly.

“But—but you need help, you—”

 _“I don’t need your help,”_ he hisses sharply, deliberately not meeting Jon’s eyes.

The hollow ache of it all settles deep in Jon’s chest, and he takes a small step back from the car.

“Just let it go, Jon, I’m begging you. Let me go,” Martin whispers damply, curling in against the pain of his battered ribs.

_No no no no no_

Tears pooling in his eyes, Jon hesitantly reaches out a hand to grip Martin’s forearm.

“Get well. Please,” he whispers—and drops his hand, gently closing the car door and wondering dimly if that’s the last time he will ever see him.

“Hey.”

Basira turns him around gently by the shoulder, forcing him to look at her.

“Don’t worry, Jon. I’ve got him,” she assures, gaze intense with meaning.

“I know,” he replies softly. “I know. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She gets in the car at once, giving him a nod before she drives off—tires kicking up the sludge in her wake, leaving Jon shivering in the emptiness.

Grief, bitter and biting, falls over him like snow.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! come find me on tumblr @celosiaa if you want to yell at me. hope you all are having a great day out there <3


End file.
